


The Hunt of the Pumpkin King

by Akiko_Natsuko



Series: Reaper76 [84]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Character Death, Dead People, Death, Decapitation, Goretober, Grief/Mourning, Heads Mounted on the Wall, Horror, Jack-o'-lanterns, Jack-o'-lanterns on bodies, Local Legends, Loss of Control, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Murder, Resurrection, mind/body control, pumpkin king - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: 'Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,Pray for those who hear the call,Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,The voice of the King hungry for more.'Jack had never been sure what he thought about the legends of the Pumpkin King. As a child, he had been fascinated and terrified in equal measure. As he’d grown older, he’d started to question it more. He couldn’t deny that people disappeared every autumn or the bodies that were found… bodies without heads, just as the rhymes and legends told, but he wasn’t convinced. Then he’d left the village, gone to fight in the army, and between the mockery of his fellows when they’d shared customs and stories from home, and the fact that he’d had a taste of just what humans were capable of, he couldn’t help but think that the village was wrong.That there was no Pumpkin King.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Series: Reaper76 [84]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188655
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	The Hunt of the Pumpkin King

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB).

_Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,_

_Pray for those who hear the call,_

_Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,_

_The voice of the King hungry for more._

****

Autumn had come early this year, the evenings drawing in, casting the village and the surrounding forest in a blanket of darkness earlier and earlier. Inside, the tavern with the roaring fire in the hearth, and lanterns casting a warm glow in the corners were the light of the flames didn’t quite reach, and spiced cider warming his insides, it was hard for Jack to remember that the changing seasons meant danger for the village. Hard, but not impossible, because all around him he could hear the whispers – old rhymes and stories, names that had been carved into the old oak so they would never be forgotten, spoken as though the ghosts of those who had fallen before were sat with them, and fear.

“…Autumn has come too early…”

“It’s not the crops…”

“…it’s him…”

_Him._ Jack grimaced. He had never been sure what he thought about the legends of the Pumpkin King. As a child, he had been fascinated and terrified in equal measure. Aided by the fact that he and his siblings had never been allowed outside past dark, and they’d had to help put the charms at the door and to keep the candles lit during the night. As he’d grown older, he’d started to question it more. He couldn’t deny that people disappeared every autumn or the bodies that were found… bodies without heads, just as the rhymes and legends told, but he wasn’t convinced. Then he’d left the village, gone to fight in the army, and between the mockery of his fellows when they’d shared customs and stories from home, and the fact that he’d had a taste of just what humans were capable of, he couldn’t help but think that the village was wrong.

Oh, sure there was something or more likely someone out there killing people, but rather than some mythical being with a Pumpkin head, he was sure it was a human or maybe more than one. Of course, suggesting that when he’d returned home had gone down like a tonne of bricks, and he’d had the worst argument he could ever remember with his parents, and they were currently acting as though the topic had never arisen. Wisely, he hadn’t mentioned his thoughts to anyone else, and yet still he worried at the idea, the cider not enough to dull his thoughts, and as he heard yet someone else join the conversation, he found himself pushing his drink away and climbing to his feet.

Most people ignored him, apparently two years away was enough to make him an ‘outsider’, and aside from his family, no one seemed to have expected him to return. _Maybe I shouldn’t have,_ he thought, as he passed a group speculating on who might go missing this year, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at them.

“Jack, you’re walking home alone?” A voice rose above the din just as he reached the door, reminding him that there was one other person glad to have him back, and he turned to look at Ana who had paused in the middle of pouring a drink and was looking at him with a worried frown.

“It’s not that far,” he pointed out, trying not to frown back at her. He had forgotten that people didn’t go out alone in the dark here, and part of him bristled at the question, after all, he was a soldier, and he had survived worse than a short walk in the dark. “I’ll be fine, Ana, promise,” he flashed her a grin instead, stuck his tongue out at a sleepy-looking Fareeha who was perched at the end of the bar and darted out of the door before Ana could come up with an argument he couldn’t defeat. And he had a feeling he would be catching an earful from her later as he heard her calling after him until the heavy door closed behind him and cut off her voice.

There was a chill in the air, and even with the lanterns and candles in the windows as he wound his way through the village, the darkness pressed close. Jack shivered, pulled his coat closer and wished he’d brought a scarf as he sped up. Out here, with the hush that had settled over the village with the arrival of night, it was easier to understand why people still believed. Despite himself, Jack found himself glancing around, casting uneasy glances towards the forest that curled around the village, dark and silent and watchful.

“This is ridiculous…” He muttered to himself, starting a little at how loud his voice was in a quiet and immediately falling silent again.

It took him a moment to notice that it wasn’t as quiet as it had been before. There was a noise behind that almost sounded like feet pattering on the ground, and he whirled, hands raised in case of an attack and found himself staring at…

…nothing.

There was nothing there, and the moment he had moved the noise had disappeared. Had he just spooked himself with the sound of his own footsteps? He waited a moment longer and turned away with a muffled curse. _Great, now I am imagining things._ He had already been starting to regret coming home, and now he was jumping at shadows, he grimaced. His old Captain would have a field day with him acting like a skittish rabbit, and that thought had him squaring his shoulders and striding forward, refusing to look left or right, or turn around as after a pause the sound resumed.

_There’s nothing there. There’s nothing…_

Something brushed against his ear like a finger had caressed the curve of it, and Jack shuddered as a chill swept through his skin, as he whirled around, lashing out and again hitting nothing. There was nothing there. The night was quiet, and still, with not even a breeze stirring the leaves in the trees or the flames of the lanterns, and yet Jack could feel it, there were eyes on him. A gaze that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and yet there was no one there, and nothing stirred as he waited, barely daring to breathe, half-expecting something to lunge out of the darkness at any moment. _You’re imagining things, Jack, you had too much to drink and listened to all those silly stories and…_

Jack held his ground for a moment longer, and he was just starting to believe what he was telling himself and relax when he heard it. It wasn’t a voice, or not as he knew voices to be, and there were no words or at least none that he could make out, and it drifted to him, filling the air around him for all directions, so faint that it must’ve come from a distance even though there was no breeze to carry it.

Wordless, meaningless and yet it called to him, and his heart skipped a beat in realisation.

_Pray for those who hear the call…_

He’d been to war, he’d seen and done horrors that he could never have imagined before he’d left the village, and had laughed at the superstitions that he’d grown up with. Yet at that moment he forgot all of that, emitted a noise that was far too close to a whimper and bolted.

There was a blast of cold air against his face as a wind rose around him, lifting the leaves already painted red and orange, and swirling around them as he pounded down the path. A wind that didn’t touch the flames of the lanterns as he ran past, and didn’t stir the forest, the trees that pressed closer now unmoving in the darkness.

_Death on the wind, in the night…_

Why did they have to live on the outskirts? To the point that they all but lived in the forest? Jack had never questioned it before, never minded the longer walk to get home, but tonight, with his heart hammering in his chest, and an icy lump of terror taking root in his chest, he cursed that distance.

He had no idea if anyone or anything was following. Couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring in his ears and the strangely distant pounding of his feet on the ground. Could barely see past the leaves that were being whipped into a frenzy around him. It didn’t matter, he knew the route home better than anything, and as he turned onto the small path that led from the street up into the trees and to where he thought he could just make out the lights of their own lanterns, he dared to hope as he sped up again. He was almost home, and soon he would be out of the dark, away from this chill, and it would all seem like a bad dream, a trick of his mind, a…

The door was open…

_Death on the wind, in the night, at the door…_

He froze, one hand stretched towards the garden gate, eyes locked on the brightly lit doorway. During the day it was common for the door to be left wide open, his parents were always coming and going, tending to the animals and the garden, with neighbours coming and going. But at night? It was unheard of for the door to be left unlocked, let alone open. The lanterns were still lit though, he tried to tell himself, so maybe they had just forgotten? Or fallen asleep after dinner as they were wont to do these days? _But they’ve never forgotten before,_ his traitorous mind whispered, refusing to give him any comfort. He swallowed thickly before forcing himself to open the gate, wincing when the hinges screeched in protest – his father had asked him to oil them that morning, and he’d forgotten.

Nothing stirred at the noise, and Jack felt sick now with how hard his heart was pounding as he all but crept up the garden path. Spying his father’s spade upright in one of the vegetable beds, he grabbed it, hefting it in trembling hands.

The door when he reached it was undamaged as far as he could tell, the hinges intact and the lock looked untouched too. He took a deep breath, hoping that was a good sign before stepping over the threshold and it seemed to him that the wind rose in intensity for a moment before disappearing and his heart was in his throat, as he glanced behind him to see the leaves landing in a pile on the doorstep before turning back. “Mother? Father?” He called as loudly as he dared, moving down the small hallway towards the living room. Once more there was that whisper of sound behind him, like someone pattering along in his wake, but Jack refused to look back because the fire was burning bright in the living room which suggested that someone had been stoking it. “Did you forget to lock the door, after giving me all that grief about…”

Jack’s voice died in a strangled whine, because there above the merrily blazing fire, on the wrought iron hooks his father had made for his mother to hang flower baskets from were…

_Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…_

They stared at him, from empty, accusing eyes. _Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…_ He thought they were screaming at him, their mouths twisted and grotesque or maybe that was the hooks, the curved tips glistening in the firelight. A low, pained noise rose in his throat, halfway between a sob and howl as he took a trembling step forward, as though waiting for the image to shatter if he moved.

It couldn’t be real, they couldn’t…

Blood was still trickling down the wall, painting the once green wall with macabre patterns before sliding down to pool on the mantelpiece, covering family pictures and trinkets of lives cut short. Bile was rising, and Jack dropped the spade as he found himself pressing a hand to his mouth. _This isn’t real, it isn’t…_ He couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear his gaze away from his mother’s weathered features which had softened into a smile for the first time since their argument just that morning as she shooed him out the door, and his father’s stern features twisted with fear and grief.

_Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…_

He had reached the back of the armchair that he had been expecting to find his father asleep in. Walking into it and jolting in sudden fear at the contact and looking down.

His father was sat where he had expected…

There was a pause, Jack feeling too much for him to make sense of anything in that second, and then he was doubled over and vomiting. Because, his father was sat where he had expected, or rather the rest of him was… with a cruel addition. And even as Jack squeezed his eyes shut, tears beginning to run down his cheeks, as he choked and gasped and heaved, bringing up what felt like everything he had ever eaten, all he could see was the smiling face of the jack-o’-lantern that had been set on the ruined stump of his father’s neck.

It felt like a lifetime before he managed to stop throwing up, by which point he had been reduced to bringing up the foulest bile, and he felt hollow and wrung out, as though someone had just reached inside him and scooped out everything. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to straighten and lift his head. _Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…_ He didn’t want to see those accusing eyes, he didn’t want to look at the other chair, knowing what would wait for him there.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to be a coward and run away and pretend that this wasn’t happening.

There were footsteps behind him, no longer the light pattering of a stalker in the night, but the heavy tread of death prowling closer. _Move. Run. Fight._ Jack willed himself as terror unlike anything he’d felt descended over him, the world beyond his eyelids turning dark as a sudden chill swept through the room, and the fire and lanterns died.

“N-No…” He whispered, voice cracking and breaking, just as the footsteps came to a halt behind him and he felt warm breath tease the back of his neck, before a cold finger brushed against his neck, as though marking out a line.

The touch made him recoil and forced him into movement as he stumbled forward and away from it, turning around and trying to see who or what it was in the darkness that now filled his house.

Laughter, a deep, throaty chuckle rolled through the room.

“Jack…” It was a whisper amongst the laughter, and he knew, even though he hadn’t heard the voice clearly before that it was the same one that had called to him on the way home and he couldn’t breathe again, couldn’t even move, as he felt it coil around him. He was trembling and terrified, his heart beating a staccato beat in his chest, and yet that single world was like a siren song, locking him in place, his arms falling helplessly to his side even as his eyes bulged with terror. “They called for you Jack.” The owner of the voice was moving, and all Jack could do was track the sound with his eyes, and even as the words cut deep, inflicting bloody gouges on his already aching, broken heart, the voice called to him. Soothed him. “Pleaded for you.”

“P…” Jack tried to speak, not sure if he was trying to plead for mercy, for forgiveness, or to hear more of that eerie, wonderful voice. His lips were locked in place, and there was a tsking sound from the darkness.

“There is nothing left for you to say, Jack…” Was that a threat? Disappointment? Jack didn’t know, didn’t understand how his heart twisted with fear and then fell at the thought that it might be the latter. “Come here, Jack.” The voice was softer now, a request not a command, and yet Jack couldn’t have disobeyed even if he’d wanted to, his shaking legs carrying him forward before he even knew what was happening. He couldn’t see in the dark, but his body wove around a low table as though guided, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was now stood between the armchairs…the chairs where his parents… _Oh God, what was he doing? He had to fight, had to…_ “Stop.” Just like that, all thoughts of defiance of fighting, faded, as though the command had stopped everything, and he froze again.

Hands stretched out of the darkness, clawed fingers stroking along his jaw, and Jack couldn’t pull away, didn’t want to pull away, even as he screamed silently at himself to do so. Then the fingers were moving lower, stroking over his throat, and he distantly felt himself swallowing convulsively, terrified and at ease all at once, his traitorous body trying to lean into the touch.

Then it was gone, and he was alone in the dark for a moment, unable to breathe or move or think.

When the light came, it blinded him for a moment, vision swimming in shades of red and orange and yellow, too much after the darkness. And there was no relief at the sight of the light, no childish hope that the flames would keep the monsters at bay because as his vision began to clear, the flames looked back at him.

No, not flames.

Eyes and a mouth slashed deep into the flesh of the Pumpkin head that stared back at him, smirking and hungry, and alive in a way that shouldn’t be possible. _The Pumpkin King. But it was a legend, a story they told to…_ Jack’s denials trailed off because the Pumpkin King had tilted his head, drawing his attention away. Like a puppet on a string, Jack felt his head follow the unspoken command, and he looked at his father’s body. Or rather the Jack-o’-lantern that had replaced his head, and saw that it was alight too, lit from within by an unholy blue light that flickered and danced, and yet held none of the life the Pumpkin King’s did. A lifeless lantern and a whine rose in the back of Jack’s throat, as he felt his head moving again, twisting to the other side and something in his heart, splintered and broke as he finally laid eyes on his mother’s body, the jack-o’-lantern on her neck carved into a cruel mockery of the smile she had given him that morning, and the whine became a keening noise that built and built with nowhere to go.

_Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,_

_Pray for those who hear the call,_

_Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,_

_The voice of the King hungry for more._

The Pumpkin King moved then, the smirk turning to something almost soft, and Jack found his head drawn back to the front, meeting his gaze. Terrified and grieving, entranced and hopeful all at once, and there was almost a sense of relief when clawed fingers brushed against his cheek. Wiping away the tears that were falling, even as Jack continued to come undone on the inside, unable to stop the noise he was making, the Pumpkin King tilting his head to the side as though listening to it. And too late, Jack realised he was being permitted to make that sound, that he was playing into whatever He wanted and he tried to stop it, but it was a feeling that couldn’t be contained even he’d been able to.

“Jack,” the Pumpkin King whispered, trailing fingers down to his throat once more, and this time Jack felt the claws break his skin, warm blood beginning to ooze across chilled skin. “Will you give me more?” It was a plea, and Jack was already nodding, not sure if it was his will or the King’s and not sure he cared any longer, even before the Pumpkin added softly. “Will you give me everything like they did?” There was a loosening around his throat. Not physically, because the claws were still there, biting a little deeper now as though the Pumpkin King was too impatient, but somewhere inside and Jack took a ragged breath as finally, the keening faded to a whine and then a whimper before his own voice betrayed him.

“…Yes.”

“Kneel for me.” This time it was a command, given almost before he’d finished replying, and Jack fell to his knees immediately, as though someone had just cut the strings holding him up, the hold on his throat disappearing for a moment and leaving him with an eerie feeling of loss.

There was no order, but he lifted his head, and he knew it had been wanted when the Pumpkin King’s eyes blazed brighter for a moment. Beyond the pumpkin head, Jack could see his parents, could see and feel their haunting gaze, and he couldn’t look away, distantly aware that he was still crying as the Pumpkin King stepped close to him again, and leant in low, letting him feel the heat of his fire. “I have just the jack-o’-lantern for you, and maybe, just maybe Jack…yours will glow as bright as mine.” There was meaning that Jack didn’t understand in those words, but he found himself nodding and smiling even through his tears, entranced despite his terror and grief, pleading and desperate for something he didn’t understand as though the world had narrowed down to the flaming gaze that met his. “…please…”

Laughter again, softer this time and the feel of the Pumpkin King pressing what Jack supposed was supposed to be a kiss to his forehead. “As you wish…” The flames flared, Jack’s parents watched on in silent, eternal condemnation as claws settled on his throat, and Jack quailed before their gaze, even as his lips pulled up in a smile and agony tore through his throat.

It wasn’t quick, the Pumpkin King softly reciting the old rhyme as though it was a prayer and Jack’s world was pain, and blood and death…

…until he knew no more.

_The voice of the King hungry for more._

****

A year later:  
  
Autumn was coming.

Deep in the forest, in a mansion that had long since fallen out of all memory, the Pumpkin King stirred within his coffin. Called back to life by the chill in the air and the promise of the season. He had come to hate this time, this awakening to a world that he didn’t belong in anymore, where loneliness stalked him, as he stalked the people who lived in the shade of the forest.

This year was different.

As he stepped out of the coffin, his flames sprang to life. A pleasant warmth inside and out that spread through the mansion, lighting the torches and candles that had been dark since the onset of the previous winter. And as he stretched and straightened, he felt a stirring in the air. Anticipation and dread mingling in equal measure as he crossed the room to the other coffin that had lain unoccupied for far too long, a constant taunt against his loneliness.

It was no longer empty, and as he reached it, there was the scratching of clumsy fingers against the lid and for the first time in centuries he felt hope as he reached out and pushed aside the lid. A light burned in the darkness, not the empty, lifeless blue that was all he could give most people, but a bright, echo of his own flames and as he leaned in, eyes snapped open and met his gaze. The jack-o’-lantern he had lovingly, tenderly carved the previous year, twisting into a smile that he echoed as he held out a hand in invitation. An invitation that was immediately accepted, the other man allowing himself to be pulled upright and the Pumpkin King laughed, soft and delighted as they stood facing one another, holding hands.

“Welcome home, Jack.”

_Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,_

_Pray for those who hear the call,_

_Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,_

_The voice of the King hungry for more._

_**_

_Autumn comes, without a call,_

_No blood on the floor, or heads on the wall,_

_No death on the wind, in the night, at the door,_

_For the Pumpkin King is lonely no more._


End file.
